Chapter I • Maia

“It is hither, coming through! Delivery for the one and only barmaid of Augborough, the beautiful Matilda,” I bellow, villagers moving out of the way as I slide the heavy cart I’m pulling to a halt right in front of the beerhouse, almost running into the stout, irritable, antiquated widow. “Straight from the brewery!”

She turns to me, raising a bushy eyebrow at the wobbling barrels on the cart before nodding in approval. She then glowers at me, inspecting me up and down, and shrugs at the ends of my gown, which I have tied a little higher than usual, revealing the leather boots that reached my calves. She orders her sons to load the barrels into the local pub with a yell, her shrilling voice booming across the center of the village. Ah, good ol’ Matilda.

“Gramercy, lass, yer timing is impeccable, as always! Here's ye payment, and— hold on, where is that blue-eyed lad? Ain’t he supposed to be with ye? That scobberlotcher leaving all the weight-liftin’ to the woman!”

“At ease, Matilda! I just happen to want to get the job done sooner than he wants it to be done, not to mention, mayhap, I am simply faster than him?”

The barmaid cackles, the sound of it similar to the squeaking of my cart’s wheels when I forget to oil it. I laugh awkwardly, taking the pouch of coins and watching her enter the pub with a slam of the door. I sigh and turn to my cart, checking for any damage, and catch a glimpse of a recognizable blonde running from afar in between the wooden slats.

“By the heavens, Maia! You really… will not… slow down, will you? You are going… to get yourself hurt,” he says in between panting breaths, bent over in exhaustion. When he looks back up, his shoulders sag and he points a finger at my legs. “Again, with your gown?!”

“Come now, Nicolaus, we have been doing these errands for years! You should know by now that I cannot run with free-flowing cloth in between my legs, and that these tasks should be done rathe!”

“You should know that your clumsiness will injure you if you are not cautious, and I’ve no vigor! I am out of breath just loping to your house, and I live right next door!”

“Oh, come hither, you blonde bloke,” I tease, approaching the tall, blue-eyed boy. Although I almost trip just moving towards him, I catch myself and ruffle his unkempt hair, speaking to him as if he were a baby. “Does the wee tot want to take a wee stroll, hm?”

He gives me a look between worried, confused, and disgusted, which gets a chuckle out of me. I tell him that I’m teasing, reassuring him that I am alright and know what I’m doing, having a look at the red face he always has when we banter. I undo the tied ends of my gown, letting it fall back down to my booted ankles before taking hold of the cart, before beginning our journey back home.

Nicolaus is my friend. My only friend, at that, but my childhood friend. Growing up, we typically did everything together— from bathing, errands, and eating dirt, to causing trouble and getting each other hurt and scolded… rather badly.

He has aided me throughout my whole life and done his best to bring me home unscathed, just as my uncle would constantly ask him to. I would protect him as well, just as he had been protecting me, because that is what friends are for, no? I would not have my life any other way— except, mayhap, for more food on the table for the borough.

Augborough is a peaceful land founded by the late Lord Augustus Davidson, a knight of The King’s Royal Army who hunted down an evil witch. He saved the land from extermination, and vowed to rule the land justly and abet the people in need. However, it came with a price, and the entire island had been experiencing famine throughout the decades ever since the nobles ruled. Because we only trade for iron— occasionally, some meats— with our neighboring lands, the borough is a land unknown to most of Prydain. With that, we are forced to thrive off whatever resources we have left after every harvest season.

With the current noble governing the land, the legend-made-history’s grandson Lord Edgar Davidson, we Augbies yearn for the moment the lord decides to at least lessen the demand for crops every season…

As Nicolaus and I arrive home, I take out the pouch the barmaid had given me and count the earnings of the day.

“Ten shillings,” I mumble, giving my blonde friend his share. “This can buy us an ale tankard or two and some bread from the baker across us!”

Nicolaus looks at me with a blank stare, reaches for my free hand, and gives me two more shillings from his share. I flinch at the contact, staring back up at him when he encloses the silver coins in my palm with my fingers.

“You have more family to feed, Maia,” he utters, smiling down on me and tucking a stray lock of my brown hair behind my ear. It is something he often does to me when he’s being sincere. “It is better if you cook something up instead of eating tasteless, dry bread— something that can help Eustace, perchance?”

“You have a family to feed as well, you fopdoodle,” I retort, stretching my arm out to give him back the two shillings. “Your father will not be so happy that you’ve only earned that much today.”

He firmly pushes my hand back towards me and places his hands on his hips, fingers creasing his yellowing chemise.

“Oh, he can take all my money and feed himself if it means that you, your uncle, and his son will be fed.”

“You’re being a bobolyne, Nicolaus.”

“One who cares, Maia. 'Tis alright, I promise. You need not pay me back,” he exclaims as he begins walking away from me, before making a run for it.

That idiot, forgetting he lives right next door!

Sighing and shaking my head, I wheel the cart to its rightful place and go through the front door, finding my bald, bearded uncle Wyatt hammering a piece of hot metal on the anvil in his workshop. I decide to greet him later, knowing he dislikes being disturbed while he’s doing his job, for he ponders when he is smithing. I head to the other side of the house and up the stairs to where his son Eustace’s bed is, finding him on it with half of his body under a linen blanket.

“How fare thee, Eustace?” I ask the pale, skinny lad, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I still feel awful, to be frank, but alright, to say the least,” he mutters, speaking in a raspy, low tone, just as he has been growing up. “Let me help you with supper, Maia. You must be tired after today’s delivery…”

I shake my head and reassure him, telling him to stay in bed while I prepare supper, before leaving briefly to buy onions, peas, and carrots from the farmer who lives across from us. With the extra money Nicolaus had insistently given me, I am able to buy some horsebread to go along with the pottage I intend on cooking. I pick a few beans from the small garden at the back of the house afterwards, and wash all the ingredients in a bucket of water I attained from the well in the middle of the village. Because I had spilt the water during my first trip back, I had to return to the well and refill the bucket.

You can imagine how tiring this all may seem.

During preparations, Uncle Wyatt returns from his workshop, hanging his leather apron on a nail jutting out the wall next to the door. I wave at him, grasping one of the knives he had made by hand, and receive a nod in response. He then opens the front door and leaves the house— presumably going to grab himself some ale at Matilda’s pub again. He is no drunkard, for sure, but I am unable to say that this is a healthy way of relaxing, either.

My uncle is the land’s remaining blacksmith. When I was a wee child, he worked alongside a man just like him— his name was Morris. The two worked extremely well together, as if they read each other’s minds whilst smithing. They used to finish weeks’ worth of weapons and armor in days with the iron trade from the other lands, and he was my uncle’s best companion. I thought my uncle was the happiest man during those times until Morris had gone missing… A decade has passed, and to this day, he is nowhere to be found.

Mayhap that is the reason my uncle frequently went to the pub at the end of every day… I cannot imagine how it feels to lose someone so important to me.

The frail lad Eustace crosses my mind as I chop the ingredients atop the dining table. Uncle Wyatt claims that he is his son, but I honestly see no resemblance.

Did he look like his mother?

If so, who was Uncle’s wife, and why had he not mentioned anything about her? It is unusual.

Moreover, I’ve no idea if he has been sickly since he was born— Uncle seems to be healthy, so what is causing this boy’s poor health? Is there even a cure?

With these questions being churned in my head and making me feel uneasy, I pour the vegetables into the pot on the hearth and leave it to boil. I know nobody will ever really respond to my queries, but I cannot help but feel so… curious.

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As soon as my cooking came to an end, the sun had already set. While lighting the wicks of the tallow candles all around the house, Uncle Wyatt comes back smelling like ale, as I had expected.  

“Good eve, Uncle. Supper is ready, have a seat,” I state, gesturing to the dining table I have already set. “I’ve served Eustace a bowl as well, so he can stay in bed.”

“Aye, gramercy, Maia. I apologize for being late.”

“Not at all! I know how taxing these days have been for you, Uncle,” I state, handing him a bowl of the pottage. He wipes the remaining ale off his mustache before receiving his meal with both hands, before serving myself a bowl, as well. We dine in silence for a few moments before I decide to speak up, uneasiness taking over my mind.

“Uncle,” I start, putting the metal spoon down. “I am concerned about your health… Mayhap you should refrain from the drinking?”

“Yer ol’ uncle is tough— I can still knock back Matilda’s strongest brew! No need to fret about me, lass.”

“Yes, however… You’re not getting any, um…”

My voice drops to a whisper.

“Younger… and… I cannot help but fear that you may end up ill, similar to Eustace, or worse, like Mother—”

He slams a fist against the wooden table, cutting me off and causing our bowls to shake.

“What have I told ye about speaking about yer mother, Maia?” he retorts, his tone firm.

“I-I am simply creating an example!”

“I’ve told ye not  to bring up yer mother, lass. She is gone, and nothing will bring her back,” he mutters bitterly, brows furrowing as he tips a spoonful of stew to his lips. “Same goes for yer father.”

“I am aware of that,” I murmur dipping a ripped piece of bread into the pottage’s broth. “I am merely expressing my worries, Uncle. I do not want… to lose anybody else…”

He sighs, reaching for my shoulder. He gives it a reassuring pat when I look up at him, an empathetic look on his face.

“I know how difficult it is for ye, Maia, not knowing who yer parents were. Even after all these years, it still hinders me that my sister is gone… But she was a strong woman, and she always made sure we were fed in the past. Now that yer following in her footsteps, Petra would be full of pride seeing ye, lass— nothing mattered to her more than family.”

I become teary-eyed, emotions welling up in my throat. Mother was a sensitive topic to Uncle Wyatt, that is why I know talking about her is hard on him, too.

“I’ll try to lessen my trips to Matilda’s if it will put ye at ease,” he says, returning to his supper. “I apologize for worrying ye.”

I nod as I wipe the tears threatening to fall, and return to my meal as well. Hesitantly, I ask him what Mother was like in their childhood days. He sadly shakes his head and glances my way, putting another spoonful of his supper into his mouth.

“Not… not now, lass. Perhaps some other time.”

“What about my father? You said he had been mauled by a bear while hunting, and you… never told me anything else. What was he like?”

With this question, Uncle Wyatt flinches, a strange look in his eyes. He instantly tells me 'no', saying that talking about him would be a waste of time.

Why did he react that way? Did my uncle dislike my father?

As we finish our meals in prolonged silence, I wash our dishes with what remains of the water from the well and a piece of cloth. Uncle pauses by the doorway to speak to me before heading to his bed.

“Maia,” he says, his back towards me. “Yer mother is who I care about, lass. Do not ever bring up yer father.”

hither – “here”; antiquated – “old-fashioned”; scobberlotcher – “lazy person who never works hard”; loping – “running’; rathe – “soon”; wee – “small”; Prydain – "Great Britain in Welsh"; fopdoodle – “foolish man”; bobolyne – “Tudor English for ‘fool’”.